Faults and Perfection
by CarrilaideAnywhere
Summary: Set in the 72nd Hunger Games, Kova Solomon fights to survive and, if she can pull through, will her sanity come with her? Can she keep everything she cares for from falling apart? -I'm going to say it really picks up at chapter three-
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This chapter doesn't introduce many real characters, but I needed it to help describe my main character. I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy, of course.**

"Ladies first!" I close my eyes tightly while Effie's spidery hand digs through the globe of sacrificed names. Something had been off all week, and I couldn't help but feel that-

"Kova Solomon!" Damn. I don't wait for all the other fourteen year old girls around me to back away as if I'd suck them right into the Games. I push through the crowd and try to appear as nonchalant as possible, and the while my head is screaming and my heart is smacking repeatedly into my stomach like a fleshy boulder. I try to find Mr. Austerlitz in the crowd.

I make my way up the depressed looking concrete steps to the ever abhorred platform. I register through my overwhelming and quivering fear that I'm facing a loud, well known boy from school. I shake his perspiring hand. It's ironic that the slightly windy weather in District 12 could be so nice on such a bad day.

We're ushered into the building. I hear my district partner's door swinging open multiple times.

Mr. Austerlitz is my only visitor. He's my history teacher, not to mention my role model. I have no doubt that I am his favorite student. I feel my hands quiver. I sweep across the room and wrap my arms around him, and he returns the favor.

When he first met me, he was concerned. My parents never came in for conferences or open house or anything school related. When he inquired, I was already taken by him and his quick wit and intelligence. He's the only one who knows the truth about me. He's been my only friend.

"Listen, Kova. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but you don't terrify your classmates for nothing. I know you can beat the Game."

"But, it's just a lot of talk, Mr. Austerlitz," I say shakily. "The intimidation is just threats!"

"Yes, I know! But now, I need you to bring your viciousness to the Capitol, okay? I have faith in you." I look up at him.

"I'll try, you know, but when I don't come back, don't be sad for too long. I want you to live happily."

"You aren't allowed to talk that way!" He glares.

"I have to! My chances just aren't good!" He tries to interrupt. "No! You know you are my favorite person in the world, right? And, this is the last request I'm going to ever make. Don't let my death ruin anything for you."

"I'm supposed to be the one comforting you," he says, running a hand through his short, dark brown hair. I see tears in the blue eyes I'd come to recognize.

"You've already done more than I could ever hope for," I say, and I grab his hand. "You're only 34 and you're already the best teacher in the world. Not to mention that I've never met a better person."

But that's all we have time for, because they make him leave. But he has one final thing to call over his shoulder as he's guided out, "Take care of yourself!"

And I've never cried so hard, but I make myself quit and toughen up when they come for me.

Once directed to a room, I spend the whole day there, staring at the ceiling and such. I lay on the wooden floor, thinking about death and probability, thinking about games that I've never seen for fast passing hours, but mostly I think of Mr. Austerlitz. He had become my family. He was a father, a brother, a best friend, and a mentor. He is everything I could ever care about.

...

I'm trying to refrain from counting exactly how many hours I have left until I head into the Games when there is a rapping at the door. I clear my throat, "Come in." The door swings open and Effie takes a small step in.

"It's time for you guys to meet Haymitch and eat dinner." I nod my understanding and pick myself off the floor following her out. I feel my stomach clench at the idea of eating dinner with a boy I might be the one to kill and a man famous for his unpleasant attitude and drinking.

I sit myself at one of the only seats that isn't next to anyone else and awkwardly fold my hands in my lap, completely turned off of eating anything in this strange place. I fidget for about six minutes while my fellow tribute stuffs his starved mouth, Haymitch drowns himself in wine, and Effie shakes her head at both of them, eating with utensils and elbows off the table. I take in my situation and curse the world.

"Right. I'm gonna go," I say, walking toward the door.

"You didn't eat anything though," Effie gawks at me.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Really?" she asks, surprised at having a kid from 12 with no appetite.

"Only kind of. Oh!" I take a few steps closer to the table, "When I die, don't bother trying to arrange plans to bury me- I can't stand the thought of being buried. Please, just cremate me." Effie and Haymitch glance at each other.

"We can cremate you and send you back to your parents," mutters Haymitch.

"I don't have parents." They share a glance again. Effie's eyebrows shoot up into her wig. "But, if you need someone to be held responsible for my remains, just look for Emerson Austerlitz. He teaches at my school. He'll take care of it." At this, Effie's jaw drops. She had jumped to conclusions, probably thinking Mr. Austerlitz is some pervert. I turn away and walk out of the small dining car, door shutting behind me.

I decide to go to bed early. What's the point of enduring reality?


	2. Chapter 2

Someone had caught my attention during the past few days of training. He's from District 7, and his good, selfless deeds remind me painfully of Mr. Austerlitz. He has earned my attention, being one of the few good people I have ever met. Naturally, I steer clear of him.

Effie remains on my bad side, with her crossed legs and straight spine. She's too nosy, inquiring about Mr. Austerlitz. I'm not afraid to be mean to her, which Haymitch always finds funny.

I've found humor in Haymitch during dinner. I'm glad to have retained a sense of humor in my particularly dark circumstances. I can make him laugh-or, at least guffaw -and I've always loved making people laugh. At first, all Haymitch could do was terrify me. But when my district partner said I was a decent wielder of an ax, Haymitch showed interest.

"Is that right? You're good with an ax?" he asked. I snorted.

"Oh yeah. Those dummies cry when they see me," I told him with a purposeful, egotistical hair flip. He chuckled at that. He chortled at my stupid, passing comment. Sure, it had been a little attempt at a joke, and humor has always been a comfort when I'm depressed, but his reaction made me like him a lot more. It almost made things feel normal again.

Maybe I just naturally get along better with middle-aged men, but Haymitch almost seems to not mind my company. Right now, we're hard at work in the Training Center.

"Almost exactly on the target again," says Haymitch. "Maybe you have a chance." I feel the corners of my lips twitch up, dropping the bow and sliding off the quiver. We had been training all morning and maybe there really is a chance I could go home and stay alive with Mr. Austerlitz. My life in District 12 had always seemed accidental, because my arrival was so strange. But Mr. Austerlitz always seemed to make me feel like my purpose was looking out for him.

"Don't get your hopes up." This time I pick up the cold silver ax at my feet, quickly spinning to the side and swinging it. The dummy's head thuds onto the training room floor, and I hold back a giggle, having always wanted to do that. I look back to Haymitch. "On second thought, maybe you should. But I'm not the only one who's decent in combat."

I get my grip on the ax once again and fling it towards a more distant dummy. It's lodged into the dummy's stomach.

"So, should I go for an ax or bow?"

"Neither. You need to be more concerned with finding cover." I nod impatiently.

"Yeah, I'm aware, but if the occasion should arise..." I trail off. He heaves a sigh.

"Look, I can only do so much for you in that arena, and that's hardly anything. It's you who controls whether or not you stay alive for very long." I just stare at him blankly until he rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Whichever one's closest!"

It would be a lie if I didn't admit that I got a bit drunk before my interview with Caesar Flickerman. I was unabashed on stage, and I got a lot of laughs from the crowd of Capitol freaks. Effie lectured me about responsibility, but my distracted mind couldn't seem to give a damn.

I scored a nine, too, and felt just a little proud. Just a little hopeful. Like maybe I wasn't being marched to the gallows.

...

All too soon, I find myself trapped in a glass tube. I snap my fingers nervously, trying to quell the urge to curl into a ball and rock back and forth. My boots are thick and leather with strong laces and sturdy soles. They have me in a simple pair of black, rain-resistant sweatpants, a loose, cotton, white tank top, and a jacket that is sleek and looks rain-resistant as well.

I rise, tapping my foot nervously, to find the shiniest, sweetest smelling forest known to man. Everything is coated in a thick substance that looks sticky and messy, like syrup. The sun beats down hot and heavy, making the arena warm. To my left looks like a river of the syrupy substance, and to my right stands a line of tall, sturdy, sticky trees. But my sixty seconds are up. People scatter and my heart jumps to my throat. I don't know where to go.

In a daze, I dash to the bow and arrow no more than twenty feet away, and am thankful that an ax lies just within my reach. I don't dare try to get closer to the Cornucopia and grab a backpack. I turn and run to my right, toward the trees.

The emergent, panicking haze settled upon my mind is abruptly chased away by a newly clear and calculating state. This ends here. Nobody's ever taken this approach. I flip around and chop the head clean off of a girl coming at me with a sword, her body landing lifelessly at my feet, before sprinting for all I'm worth to the tree line.

I'm up a particularly sappy tree, hands matted with syrup, in a matter of moments and have my bow loaded, pointing at the boy from district 1- the head Career. Thin and precise, I watch my slight arrow sink into his head, counting my largest competition no more. I move on to take down the next biggest threat, the girl from District 2, and thank Haymitch for his training. I lodge another arrow into the girl from 1's head, sinking her to her knees. The boy from two locates me with wide eyes and hurls a spear. With a yelp, I move to the side, dodging it just in time. I feel it rush past me. The fourth arrow targets his chest, and in a spurt of scarlet, he goes down in the mouth of the Cornucopia. There. Now I'm the closest thing to a Career left.

Hesitantly, I climb back down. My hair is already sticky, and I have the feeling this is going to be the most uncomfortable arena in existence.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm glad that it rained. Not only did it give me the opportunity to collect water, but it drowned five very unfortunate tributes who had wandered too far down the arena, which was set on a big, slanted hill. Thankfully, I was on high ground.

But, the trouble is, the rain made this puddle. I wish the puddle was too muddy to show my reflection, but it isn't. I haven't seen myself in three days. Has it been three days? Maybe four. A lot can change in four days. Twenty-two kids can be killed in four days.

Anyway, I'm looking in this puddle and can't stop frowning. My brown hair is matted and knotted with this thick, sweet smelling substance. My eyes are rougher and duller than I wish to admit. My face is covered in all these little scratches from climbing trees and I feel grimy. I can't seem to keep mud and stickiness off of myself for very long.

Two days ago, I encountered the girl from 7 starting a fire. Her back was to me, so, it wasn't much of a fight when I rammed my ax into her skull. I would accuse myself of cowardice, but I'm not sorry I snuck up on her. At least she wasn't afraid. She had a backpack with gauze and an infection-fighting solution in it, which came in handy that evening.

It came to hand-to-hand combat with the boy from 9. We wrestled for a while, me with an ax, him fifteen feet away from his weapon. His grip was strong on my wrist though, so it took a long time before my ax actually struck his chest. By then, he had thrown me into a tree, where a rock gashed my shoulder. My newly acquired gauze had met a purpose, and I ransacked his stuff to come up with two knives, a bottle of water, and three boxes of crackers.

I did the math. Nine kids died at the Cornucopia. I killed three, five died in the flood, and the other tributes left must've killed five. Thomas is the only tribute left for me to hunt. He was the only one that I especially didn't want to kill. I'll try to use my arrows.

I shove my boot in the puddle, causing a splash and disturbing my reflection. Then there is nothing left to do but keep walking. I'm trying to get to the highest part of the arena. It gives me an advantage and a view of where he may be.

...

Apparently, Thomas had the same idea to head toward the top of the arena. However, I caught him harvesting berries by a bush, and now I'm slowly slinking toward him through the trees. Maybe I can catch him off guard. Give him an easy death. I don't trust my shaky hands with archery, so it'll have to be the knife. It'll be cleaner than the ax.

My feet move forward slowly, in long, careful strides. However, I don't see the branch beneath my foot when it snaps.

Thomas looks up. We're twenty feet apart, and his stuff is ten feet behind me. He stares at me, pales, and runs for his life. I chase him, feverish, wanting this game to end. I'm sick of everything being uncomfortable and gluey.

It's a hot pursuit, and I'm a machine, without a thought as I give chase to Thomas. He doesn't look back at me as I come after him, knife drawn in preparation. We maneuver the trees and jump over logs. This is no time for clumsiness.

I'm closing in on him; he's no more than ten feet ahead. My pounding heart leaps when he trips over a stone, colliding with a tree. He falls, back pressed up against the tree, and I jump on top of him, pressing my knee into his hip, trapping him.

I'm panting, face inches from his, keeping a sweaty grip on the knife held to his throat. He's panting as well and I wish that I couldn't feel his heart beating, but his eyes are shut tightly. I want to shut my eyes too, so what I'm about to do won't become tattooed in my vision.

But, I don't do it. Why haven't I done it? My eyebrows knit together. Here's victory, trapped, gasping beneath my knee, weaponless. _Come on! Just slit his throat, Kova!_ But I don't want to. What do I want?

I suppose in a nonsensical, desperately curious way, I want to hear what's on his mind.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything!?" I demand, and even I hear the note of panic in my voice. His eyes open a little.

"...What?"

"Just say something!" _Please, just say anything. Give me a way out of this. I don't want to kill you._

"Oh, a-alright," he sputters. There's a silence, but it's nearly as loud as my pulse. "I... I knew you'd win!" The river gets louder.

"Why?" His eyes are opened all the way now. They're blue.

I slide my knee off his stomach and sit so I'm on the ground next to him. My hand leaves his throat and falls in my lap, knife somewhat forgotten.

"What do you mean, 'why'?"

"What made you think I'd win?" I feel my lips saying, but I'm still looking at his eyes. This is the closest I've ever been to Thomas. His eyes aren't on me, but I watch them anyway. They're medium blue, just like Mr. Austerlitz's eyes are.

"What, you want me to compliment you before you kill me?" Thomas is brave.

"No, don't say anything nice to me," I tell him hurriedly. I don't deserve his compliments. We're quiet again. I break the hush. "That girl from District 4. I saw you run to her aid when she tripped over the mat. You know, back in the Training Center."

"What about her?" he says.

"It was a really nice thing to do. Compassionate. And then again when there was only one ham sandwich left at that weird tribute mingling lunch. You gave it to that kid who wanted it."

"... It was just a sandwich."

"But those small gestures say everything about a person." My gaze leaves his eyes only for a second to look at my knife. I flip it so the blade is facing me. Thomas eyes the knife warily.

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

"I shouldn't," I say quickly. "You're a good person."

His eyes are blue, just like Mr. Austerlitz's. It's too much, and it knocks the little oxygen I have in my lungs out. But now I'm thinking about Mr. Austerlitz. He's a magnet. How could I ever kill myself, denying myself the sight of him ever again? My knife is turned to face Thomas again.

"Are principles allowed in the Hunger Games?"

No. My principles vanished the moment I entered the Game. But Thomas could have that life I imagined for those rare, good people. He could leave this sticky hell. My hand shakes on the knife. My eyes sting viciously. I see Mr. Austerlitz again. I see the memories of him. I know what he told me, and it comes back now.

_"Take care of yourself_." And I'd never refuse him. I only ever wanted him to be happy.

My knife finds Thomas' heart. His eyes are wide, mouth open. I pull my knife out, hand tightening around his. My thumb strokes his knuckles. He's still as he bleeds out. I hold my breath when I hear the cannon, and for a moment, I take in his appearance. I deserve the pain of remembering him like this forever. Then I look at his face and reach out, sliding his eyelids close, hiding his excruciatingly unfocused blue irises. I breathe out.

While I'm walking away, I allow the knife in my hand to rake up my thigh. I hiss, tossing it aside. I slump onto the ground and observe my leg. The pain is fair, and I don't mind the burning. I'm bleeding on a thicket of sickeningly purple wildflowers.

When the ladder drops, I look into the sky, high above where a shadowy circle waits. I stand on my bad leg and rejoice for Thomas, making it hurt. Then, with a boot on the lowest rung and a careless grip on another, I'm frozen.


End file.
